


hospital visit number #22

by princehamlet



Category: Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
Genre: M/M, just a couple of boys sharing a nice lil platonic kiss dont mind me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 04:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18276275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princehamlet/pseuds/princehamlet
Summary: yossarian has committed himself to the hospital again and is finding himself extremely touch-starved and unable to push away the constant reminders of the things that haunt him. thankfully, he is not completely alone





	hospital visit number #22

Being in the hospital every day was beginning to become more of a  _ chore _ than anything. Of course, Yossarian preferred it a lot more to being in the field – would rather feel the mild annoyance of the Texan prattling on about something-or-other than feel a sort of  _ horrible dread _ constrict his throat as he slid into the nose knowing very well that his last moments could be spent inhaling the asphyxiating scent from Aarfy’s pipe – but truly, the same old routine was beginning to vex him. It was the excuse that Yossarian had always used to admit himself to the hospital: that he had a horrible pain in his liver that wasn’t quite jaundice, and that his fever was, as it always was, over one-hundred. So, each day he spent the same way: lying down on his back with one elbow curled behind his head, listening as the Texan talked about the All-American way or some bullshit – Yossarian, you see, was his newest victim of conversation, due to the fact that the man in the full-body cast had perished from this same victimhood, and all at once, Yossarian did not blame him whatsoever for escaping this mortal toil simply to get away from the Texan’s happy, caramel-smooth drawl while the distant thunder of shells dropping was ever-present in some faraway place.

It came to the point where Yossarian was completely unashamed to  _ smother himself _ with his own pillow whenever the other man opened his mouth. And the Texan didn’t even seem to care: he talked because he loved the sound of his own voice, and because people who have nothing to say are often the same people who speak much more than necessary.  When he heard the sound of heels clacking, however, he pulled the pillow from his exhausted visage, black-eyed gaze landing on Nurse Duckett, who he could swear at this moment appeared a rescuing angel to him. 

“Good morning, Yossarian, “, she greeted, her ruby-red lips curled into a polite smile, that subtle delight reaching her brown eyes. She had brought a tray with food on it, the usual: cold fruit, water, et cetera.

He grunted in response. But he was, in actuality,  _ very _ happy – she’d brought a tray for the Texan, too, which meant hopefully he’d close his mouth for two goddamn seconds so he could hear his own thoughts echoing in the empty cave of his own mind. And the Texan did, indeed, close his mouth for two goddamn seconds, eating silently while Duckett looked on. “How are you today?” she was asking, and it was a minute before Yossarian realized the question was directed towards him.

Lazily, he itched the back of his neck with his index finger. “I’m dying.” He said. 

She made a somewhat-scolding face that reminded him distantly of his mother. “ _ No.” _ She replied, slapping his statement to the ground the same way you’d knock a basketball out of someone’s hands.

“I am. I am, I’m  _ really _ dying. Here, feel my heartbeat.” His hand outstretched, calloused fingers wrapping around her lithe wrist: he brought her well-manicured hand to rest on his chest, and looked up at her, eyes searching. A dirty trick to gain some of the human affection he desperately desired? Sure. But dirty tricks were played on  _ him _ every day. He  _ was _ in the military, wasn’t he? Duckett’s expression didn’t change, but she did glance contemplatively at the ceiling as she felt his pulse reverberate against her palm for a minute or two. 

“-- Yo- _ ssar _ -ian,” Duckett said just as scoldingly after realization of the trick dawned on her, pulling her hand free and moving to turn away. “You’re not  _ dying _ .” She asserted, and then, with her cart, began to continue handing out the rations to the other men who were  _ definitely not dying _ and who definitely irritated her less than Yossarian was always inclined to. 

“We’re all  _ definitely _ dying,” He intended to call out to her, but it came out as nothing more than a half-hearted mumble, an almost bored statement, a reality he’d grown terribly accustomed to (and yet still detested with every fiber of his being.  _ Help him, help him, help the bombardier. _ ). Like a child sulking on time-out, he lifelessly began to peel the tangerine she’d left on his nightstand and, after a moment, popped one of the slices into his mouth. 

The days passed slowly and easily like this: sunrise, sunset, listen to the Texan talk, think about killing the Texan, bother Nurse Duckett, try not to succumb to the nausea rising in his stomach as he thought about inevitably going back into one of those goddamn planes, listen to the Texan talk some more, sleep, die a little, repeat. Yossarian hated to admit it, but he missed his roommate Orr – wondered how the little bastard was getting on while he was in the hospital. The guy always was working on installing some new luxury to their large tent while he was away. Absently, Yossarian daydreamed of what it could be: an oven with fresh bread baking within … a new coffeemaker with some of that Italian espresso that Milo served in the mess sometimes… he imagined Orr’s gap-toothed, grinning face, imagined that boyish giggle of his: “You gonna fly with me  _ now?” _

“Not on your life,” Yossarian imagined himself saying as he’d make his way to this new invention, tossing the other a beleaguered (yet fond) glance. Orr was such a fantastic tinkerer (although he’d never say so aloud; the inventing he did in the dead of night caused him terrible anxiety), yet he was completely incompetent when it came to landing planes right. Yossarian enjoyed the luxuries he provided; he did not enjoy the thought of Orr at the bottom of the sea, fishes snacking on his disintegrating corpse. Nausea rising; a dissatisfied, horrified look on his face. Orr was just a kid. Just a kid...

Yossarian did not even realize that he had quite literally fallen asleep and was  _ dreaming _ of such a scenario until he felt a familiar, warm hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. His eyes flew open with a jolt – all sensations rising to the surface at once, like how it felt when McWatt suddenly made them take a nosedive on missions. When his frantic eyes darted to find the face of the man in front of him, for a moment, all he could see was  _ Orr’s _ water-logged face, that snarky, stupid expression on him having fallen solemn as he was  _ dead _ and  _ had _ been dead and  _ would _ be dead if he didn’t stop crashing his  _ goddamn planes _ and – 

“Yossarian? Hey, are you okay?” It was the Chaplain. The Chaplain was a beautiful man, and Yossarian had always thought so: his brown eyes had a hint of  _ sincerity _ in them that he never saw in anyone else’s, and perhaps stupidly, knew that they contained complete honesty within them. Such was the reason that for a long, long moment, he sat propped up by his elbows in bed, just staring at him. 

“… Yossarian?” Tappman asked again, embarrassed by this prolonged eye contact but unable to look away out of fear of impoliteness. Slowly, and much to Yossarian’s chagrin, he extracted his hand from its place on his shoulder. “You looked terribly distressed. Were you dreaming?”

Slowly, the bedridden man nodded, mind wrapping its way back around lucid thoughts. “Yeah,” he said, and then, with conviction as he rubbed his eyes of sleep, repeated: “Yeah. Yeah, hell of a nightmare. It was bad.” 

“Oh.” Tappman replied pathetically, and slowly, lowered himself to sit on the very edge of the uncomfortable bed, by Yossarian’s knees. “Well, would you like to talk about it?”

“I don’t want to talk about me.” He countered quickly. After all, he talked about himself a lot, all day, every day. About how his fever, yes, was still over one-hundred; about how, yes, his liver still hurt, but was not quite jaundice. About how no, he was  _ not _ well enough to fly yet. Yossarian sat up, pulling his knees up to his chest slightly. His forehead was covered in sweat, but the air was cool; it felt good to lay the blanket to the side. “You don’t really visit much anymore.” He finally said. 

Judging by the way Tappman’s expression was quick to reveal a stab of guilt, Yossarian knew he had struck a nerve. “I know. I know, I’m  _ sorry _ .” Genuinely remorseful, the Chaplain took off his hat and, holding it in his hands, wrung it slightly. God, Yossarian loved that – what a sincere, apologetic bastard this one was. Almost sadistically, he smiled at the sight. Tappman, however, continued, gaze stuck on the floor as if he was really afraid that his friend was genuinely upset with him. “I’ve been busy … terribly busy, you know.”

“With what?” Yossarian was still smiling. 

“The colonels assignments,” His gaze finally lifted, and he was struck slightly by the pleasant look on the other’s face – however, it put him a little at ease as he continued with his sorrows: “There have been lots of missions, you know – since you’ve been hospitalized, and all. The count has been raised to one hundred, and –“

“ _ Fuck _ .” Yossarian interjected, a hand slapping against his own face.

Tappman plowed on, ignoring the unholy expletive: “—and, and, he’s simply been  _ insisting _ that I and all the other men  _ pray _ before each mission. So, I read – read a little verse, and pray with the others, who really don’t seem interested at all. And each time, Cathcart insists on having our picture taken. For the Post, you see.” His voice became passionate, as if he was speaking of some national injustice. “I don’t know, Yossarian, it seems a bit… phony to me. I just don’t know what my place is here anymore.”

“Everybody’s a  _ goddamn phony _ . Holden Caulfield said that, and he was right about it,” Yossarian was saying, all joy drained from his face. He wondered if God could hear all of their phony prayers as they scuttled around in the phony war. Tappman sensed that he had significantly dampened the other’s mood with his unlucky news, and fretted internally with the fact that he had dropped his sorrows on a man whose condition was  _ surely _ worse than anything he had to complain about. He was about to say something else when Yossarian asked without looking up: “How’s Orr?”

“Orr?” The Chaplain echoed, caught off guard by the question. “Oh, Orr is – he’s fine, I mean, last I saw of him he was telling me about some new installment to both of yours’ tent…”

Yossarian looked up.

“A coffeemaker, if I recall correctly?”

A bright smile stretched across Yossarian’s face.

And Tappman, too, smiled of relief, having seemingly fixed the problem of the other’s sudden disparity. Yossarian didn’t really strike him much as a sentimental person – he didn’t get along with really any of his peers, was constantly threatening to “machine gun” others, had fits of anxiety and anger and fear that tended to frighten him, making him wonder if he really  _ should _ be grounded from missions – but it made him relieved that even the simple news of a friend getting along well could ease his spirits a little. Gently, Tappman rested a hand on the other’s knee, and softly asked: “But how are  _ you _ , Yossarian?”

The man in the bed thought he might go insane with just that simple little gesture. He looked down at the other’s hand –  _ ha _ , he had a tan on his wrist where the sun had burnt the shape of his wristwatch into his skin, peeking up over the folded beige of his sleeve – and then back up at the other. Paralyzed with a want for affection, it took him a minute before he replied, “I’m in perfect shape. Fit as a fiddle.”

“You are?” The Chaplain’s smile became even more relieved, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Breathlessly, he happily added: “Thank heavens!” And patted his knee.

“Yeah.” Yossarian said, grin slowly mirroring the other’s. “Thank heavens.” There was a small lull where neither of them were quite, 100% where to go from there, before Yossarian lifted his chin slightly and said: “Hey, Chap?” 

“Yes?”

“Were you planning on asking me if there was anything you could do for me, by any chance?” He blinked blankly, expression a canvas empty of emotion.

Blustering slightly, and (once more to Yossarian’s chagrin) removing his hand to rest it in his own lap, the other man chuckled in an embarrassed manner and said, “Well, yes – I always do.” Solemnizing, fully prepared to receive any request from the bizarre man in front of him, Tappman inquired back: “Did you have anything in particular in mind?

The aforementioned bizarre man pretended to think for a minute. “Yeah. Can you—“

“I can’t ask Major Major to ground you, Yossarian. We’ve talked about it.”

“I wasn’t going t—“

“I can’t ask Cathcart to stop raising the number of missions, either. I’ve tried, you know that.”

“-- I wasn’t going to  _ ask _ for that.”

“Oh.” The Chaplain’s brows quirked upward. Confidentially, he scooted a little closer to better receive the request. The sun was setting in the hospital room: most everyone was either in a deathlike sleep, having dinner in the downstairs cafeteria, or actually dead. “Well, what is it?” He asked.

“Could you kiss me?” Yossarian asked, straightforwardly, casually, as if he was asking him to bring him a pack of cigarettes next time he was inclined to visit. 

Tappman’s face was entirely blank for what felt like a whole handful of minutes clustered together – he wondered, to his own internal shame, if he had imagined the question. However, when his mind made sense of the situation, immediately he broke out in a fit of completely shocked giggles, aware of the way the golden hour only made the reddening of his face more apparent. It didn’t help that Yossarian’s expression was entirely serious and casual still. “You – could I – you want me to what??” Tappman blustered, stuttering and shocked, completely abashed. 

“Kiss me. Could you kiss me? You always ask if there’s anything you can do.”

“Yes, well, Yossarian – I always mean things like  _ toys _ or  _ books _ .” He replied defensively. 

“It’s nothing serious, I just want a kiss.”

“Yossarian, I’m married.”

“So?”

“ _ Yossarian!” _

“Alright, alright, I’m  _ sorry _ .” He huffed, hiding inner disappointment. To him, it really wasn’t that big a deal. All he knew was that he’d been stuck in this bed for – what,  _ weeks _ now? – and he was practically going  _ crazy _ without any human contact. He would ask Nurse Duckett sometime (in the same casual tone with which he’d broached the subject with the other man, of course), but he got the feeling that after all of the other stupid antics he’d been up to with bothering her, she’d most likely be inclined to slap him. Orr was pretty nice about … being nice, too, sometimes. Sometimes Yossarian got the feeling that he was just as lonely. But Orr was crazy. The Chaplain was not – not to Yossarian.

And really, that’s all it was. God, he was so lonely. Sometimes he felt like he was fighting this uphill battle all by himself; to put it in the war terms he so detested, like he was stuck right on the edge of the nose without any  _ bombs _ while those bastards up in the cockpit were playing cards or something, unaware of the fact that they were about to crash into the goddamn  _ ocean _ . So he just sat there, stressed, chewing his nails, looking down into the blue expanse, waiting to just crash and die already. To him, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to ask whoever was nearest you to just  _ kiss _ you or something if you both knew you were going to  _ die _ and  _ drown _ and get eaten by fish. 

It’s a second before he raises his gaze up to Tappman’s again, feeling both a little apologetic and disappointed at the same time. “I didn’t know you were married,” Yossarian said lamely, arms crossed over his chest, knees still bent at an angle. 

The Chaplain looked a little sorry, too. He thought he understood the predicament that the other was in, and regretted shooting him down so harshly a second ago – he was a meek man, and didn’t like conflict. Especially with people like Yossarian. People who were  _ friends _ . People who were already suffering so much. Looking down, Tappman turned the silver band on his ring finger over and over again, a nervous habit. “Yes,” he said. “For a couple years now.”

He only nodded soberly in response.

Feeling dejected by the way this brief conversation had gone, Tappman looked down at his watch and realized how late it was. “Oh, my.” He said. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Mm-hmm.” Yossarian hummed, expecting that.

“I’ll try and visit soon again, okay?”

“Okay.” He agreed, and tucked himself under the white sheet once more, pulling it up to his chest and sitting upright against the backboard, resigned with an idea to pester Duckett again the next time she came around to deliver his medication. 

Standing up, still holding his hat in his hands, Chaplain tentatively inquired (for, indeed, it didn’t feel right to leave without asking):  “… can I  _ get _ anything for you, Yossarian?” 

Looking up, Yossarian just shook his head, offering him a phony little smile. “Nah. Got everything I need right here.” He wasn’t truly upset. Disappointed, but not upset. He knew he’d forget about the request in the morning.

“Well…” Tappman breathed a sigh, and smiled back at him. “See you soon, then.”

“See you.” Yossarian nodded, and then, after a moment of watching Tappman’s retreating back, turned on his side, laid his head against the pillow, stared at the Texan’s silent, sleeping form for a long moment (relishing purely in the absence of his irritating voice), and then closed his eyes. For about two minutes, Yossarian laid there, quite awake and imaginative: mostly, he was trying to imagine  _ exactly _ the kind of coffee Milo served in the mess hall, trying to trick his senses into replicating the taste on his tongue. It was arduous work, trying to remember the precise note of bitterness – imagining looking up at Orr, who would be sitting across the way in their tent, smiling a stupid smile at him. This was all the normalcy Yossarian could grasp at in this place that was his perfect replica of purgatory, a perfect hell that was all Colonel Cathcart’s design. He was reliving the same days over and over again… coming back to the squadron, flying more missions, panicking more, getting hurt more, more people dying _ , help him, help him, help the bombardier!, _ more hospitalizing himself because God,  _ he didn’t want to fly anymore. _ Yossarian hated this life and didn’t want to live it, but he didn’t want to die, either. Didn’t want to die around all these phony idiots he hated, all these cruel, manipulative bastards, all these crazy people who were shooting at him, who were out to kill him. Such an unhappy, joyless life he led.

\-- His eyes flew open when he felt a hand against the side of his shoulder once more, and soft lips pressing against his temple, holding a lingering, affectionate  _ kiss _ in place for a moment there. 

When the touch was relinquished, Yossarian turned in bed, looking up over his shoulder. Tappman was there. Slowly, a grin stretched over his lips – his heart swelled affectionately against his ribcage, delight written all over his face. The kiss burned on his skin like a warm, comforting fire in the cold. He wished he’d never pulled away from such a simple, loving thing, wished that the moment hadn’t escaped so damn  _ quickly _ .

“Well. I figured…” The Chaplain murmured.

“Oh,  _ Tapp _ .” Yossarian sighed dreamily. He was quite in love with him, now.

“Please, don’t –"

“Now you’re going to have to  _ marry _ me.”

“-- I  _ knew _ it was a bad idea,” He groaned, so easily sensitive to Yossarian’s teasing, pivoted on his heel, and exited the way he intended to. “See you, Yossarian.” He said again.

This time, when the Chaplain was truly gone (no doubt moving on to a night of sheer  _ embarrassed agony _ , having granted such a request that he was embarrassed to fulfill even with his wife from time to time, being the quite shy man he was), Yossarian laid on his back. His eyes were closed, and he was  _ smiling _ . When he found himself on the edge of unconsciousness, for once, he didn’t revisit those same night-thoughts and dreadful images that seemed branded on the inside of his eyelids. Indeed, as rare as ever, he  _ smiled _ a little. Maybe not everything was bad – maybe not everyone was crazy. Maybe not everyone was trying to  _ kill _ him. He thought about how he’d maybe thank Orr for the coffeemaker when he was released. He never thanked him before.

He thought about that kiss, so sweet and polite amid such a gruesome environment. A kiss from a saint to a liar. “See you.” Yossarian finally mumbled. And when he fell asleep, in his dreams, he did not die. 


End file.
